Moonlight and Wine
by smc-27
Summary: He wants to kiss her. He can't, and he shouldn't, and he probably won't. It may be the wine he's had and the sun he's gotten, but he doesn't want the night to end. It's Tuscany. Things are more romantic here. AU LP. Oneshot.


**A/N:** I hope you guys don't think I'm like, bombarding you with new stories. I just had a surge of creativity, and I want to share it all with you!

This story has been a work in progress for a long, long time. Months, probably. I finally finished it this morning. I've never been to Tuscany, but I sure do want to go.

**----**

_"Why Italy?" _they all asked him.

Truthfully? He has no idea. He just wants to go. He wants history and cobblestone streets and authentic food.

He's no stranger to traveling. In fact, he does it fairly often. He has the means, and he enjoys it, so he does it. He'll jet off to wherever he wants to on a moments' notice. Haley says he's searching for something, and she says that he may not know that just yet, but it's true. He doesn't deny it.

He is searching for something.

He doesn't know what he's searching for. He hopes he'll know when he finds it.

He's not sure why he thinks it might be in Italy. But he can't really lose, can he? He'll go, he'll spend 14 days in Tuscany, and he'll come home at the end of it with more than he left home possessing. That's always the way it goes.

His brother laughs at him. He's a successful author, an almost-millionaire at only 25. His dreams have come true. He's living in a big house with a pool and a weight room and a media room and a whole lot of other rooms. He's got a life most would be envious of - many are - and he doesn't take a second of it for granted.

Something's missing, though. Nathan just shrugs his shoulders and tells his brother, _"you're alone,"_ like that's so glaringly obvious to everyone.

Yes, he's alone. He has been for years. Well, not the entire time. He's had the occasional girlfriend here or there; one serious one in college. And he's busy. That's his excuse when Haley tells him he needs to meet people. He's busy. He tours the country and takes meetings and signs books, and he's just a little bit famous. People will recognize him sometimes. It's alright, he's decided. It bothered him at first. He didn't want girls squealing and coming up to him nervously with pink in their cheeks and stuttering their way through asking for an autograph. He just wanted to write. Now he realizes it's all part of his job. The writing, for him, is the easy part. It's the after that's hard. Having an editor mark up his work and change things. Book tours. Speaking during interviews. Negative reviews of the work he's put so much time and heart into.

But would he trade it? Not for a thing.

Well, not as far as he knows. You can't really say that until you're tested, can you?

----

"_Why Italy?_" her best friend asked.

She has no solid answer. She just wants to go. She's always wanted to go. The artist in her knows there's plenty to see and draw and take in and be inspired by. She needs that.

She'll be the first to admit that her life is less than inspiring. She lives alone and she works alone (mostly) and she almost likes it that way. Almost. It's tiring sometimes. It's silly, maybe, but entertaining yourself can be draining. All you do is think, and she needs a break from it.

Sure, her life as an artist and local photographer isn't exactly that demanding. She's good enough that she can charge a lot, and she sells her work for astounding rates because that's what people offer her, not what she asks. She photographs the odd family portrait or wedding. She does all the official photos for Brooke's clothing line, and she has more than enough money. It's not about money to her. It's about being fulfilled by her work, which she is, and she's forever thankful for that.

She's had boyfriends. A few over the years. Some were great and treated her well and she thought they had a shot at forever. Things ended and there were tears and broken hearts and it hurt her, but she drew her feelings and it was cathartic and she got over it. Some were harder than others; some lasted longer than others.

The only thing any of them have in common is that they all left. She hasn't found her 'type' yet, and she knows she won't know what her 'type' is until she finds it.

Brooke tells her she needs to get out and do things. Peyton says she's too busy. She's traveled a bit since college, but mostly locally; heading off up or down the coast and driving until she gets tired. She's taken one bigger trip, but only because it was a graduation gift from her father. Brooke insists that Peyton doesn't do enough for herself.

So she booked a trip for Peyton without her knowledge, and handed her a plane ticket two days before she was set to leave.

Tuscany. Two weeks.

It's exactly what she needs. _"And maybe more,"_ Brooke said. Peyton's not sure what that means.

She does like the way it sounds, though.

----

He's checking the time as he steps out of a little café, and he literally kicks a woman kneeling on the ground in the street.

"Oh!" he says apologetically. "Mi scusi!"

He bends down to help her with her things, a sketch pad and a small paper bag that are sitting next to her, and he doesn't notice anything about her, other than they're in the middle of a cobblestone street, and it's hot out, and he's just made a fool of himself by walking right into her. He really should learn to pay attention.

"Sto benissimo," she says.

And he has no clue what that means. His Italian is limited. Maybe he should take his mother's advice and learn the language before he travels.

"Mi dispiace," he offers. That phrase, he knows well. Sadly, it's been one of his most used in the few days he's been in the country. He keeps making mistakes and bumping into people, so he's saying he's sorry a lot.

"I'm sorry. What?" she asks, before even realizing what she's doing. She lost her pocket dictionary on the first day, and she hasn't been able to find another one. Granted, she hasn't looked too hard. There's too much to take in to bother. "God, Sorry. I'm speaking English to you when you just spoke Italian to me, and I'm sure you're thinking I'm just some crazy American girl, crouching in the middle of the street.."

He listens to her ramble as they both stand, and he smiles, because he realizes that she has absolutely no idea that he's American, too. Her Italian is clearly better than his, and she's still stressing herself out.

And he can't bring himself to stop her, because he's a little bit distracted by how gorgeous she is. If he'd been paying attention before, he would have probably noticed that she's not Italian. She's got blonde hair, with a perfect amount of curl, and green eyes and olive skin. Perfectly pink lips and the longest legs he thinks he's ever seen, stemming out beneath her cotton skirt.

"What?" she asks almost uneasily when she notices him smiling.

"See, this is when I wish I knew more Italian, so we could keep playing this game," he says with a smirk, watching as her jaw drops and her eyes go wide.

"You jerk!" she cries laughingly, taking the things he'd been holding for her from her hands.

She's still smiling, because the way the sunlight is hitting his already tanned skin is kind of making him look pretty amazing. And the longer she looks at him, the more she realizes that the sunlight has nothing to do with it. He's actually just gorgeous. Blue eyes and stubble, and perfectly styled blonde hair.

"Sorry," he says with a laugh. "Mi chiamo Lucas. And that's about the extent of my Italian."

He smiles again and holds out his hand, and she sighs, but shakes it because it's the polite thing to do.

"I'm Peyton. And I'm really sorry I got in your way. I just dropped my sketchbook, and then pretty much everything else I was carrying," she says, making him chuckle again.

"Well, I'm sorry I wasn't paying attention and tripped over you," he offers. "So, we're both sorry, and now we can move on, right?"

"Right."

"So where are you from?" he asks, pointing towards a ledge for them to sit on.

She walks a little ahead of him, and he thinks she's probably the most beautiful girl he's seen. Anywhere. He's never, not once in all his travels, hooked up with a random girl he's met, but he's already wondering, for some reason, if he should break that rule. It's crazy, and he's known her less than five minutes, but he's a guy and he tells himself it's a natural thought.

"South Carolina," she says. He'd heard that bit of southern twang in her voice, and guessed that she was from someplace near there, but he hadn't expected her to be that close to him.

"Really?" he asks in surprise. "I'm from North Carolina. Tree Hill. Right near Wilmington."

"That's crazy!" she cries. "I'm in Charleston. I mean, I'm _from_ Charleston. I'm obviously not there right now." He laughs again, and she closes her eyes. "I'm not usually such a rambler. Seriously, I don't know what's wrong with me."

"Nothing's wrong with you," he says sweetly. "It's kind of nice to find someone who speaks english after three days of my trying to fumble my way through ordering food."

"I've been living on pizza and spaghetti," she says, making him laugh again. "Can't go wrong."

"You're probably right," he says with a nod. "So? Reason for the trip?"

"Best friend forced me," she says seriously, but upon his confused glance, she feels like she needs to elaborate. "I've been talking about it forever, coming to Tuscany, and she told me she was sick of me talking and not following through."

"Wow," he says, laughing again. It's official. He likes this girl.

"You?"

"Finishing my novel," he says, as though that's not impressive at all. Her mouth gapes a little bit, and he rolls his eyes. "It's not a big deal."

"Yeah, it is," she says seriously. "You're writing a novel!"

"I'm actually writing my third novel," he tells her quietly. He really doesn't like to show off, and rarely ever even tells anyone he's an author. "But whatever."

"Yeah, _whatever_," she scoffs sarcastically. "You want to walk? I was just...walking."

"You mean, when you weren't sitting in the middle of the street?" he asks jokingly, and she rolls her eyes.

"Yes or no?" she asks with a raised eyebrow.

She realizes that he's funny. Genuinely funny. And she wonders briefly why she's never met someone like him on home soil. And that maybe Brooke's intuition about her meeting someone on this trip was actually accurate. She's not naive enough to think that this will go any further than just pleasant conversation that she can actually understand, but Brooke's voice in her head is reminding her to _'live a little'_, and _'be safe'_. She knows what _'be safe'_ means, and she'd be lying if she said she hasn't already thought of this handsome stranger that way. She's still a woman.

"Yes."

She slings her bag over her shoulder again, and pulls out her camera. He wants to know more about her, but he also kind of likes that she's a mystery. She feels like this little village, somehow. She's not offering up too much of herself, but she's still captivating. She gives him just enough to keep him interested, but stops short of giving too much of herself away. He doesn't know how, but in a few simple minutes, she's made him question all his philosophies on women and dating and travel and life in general. He's thinking too much. The sun is getting to him.

Or maybe it's just the way _she looks_ in the sun.

They walk for a while, slowly through the town, smiling at locals. Gentlemen tip their hats to the young woman, as their culture has taught them to do, and Lucas notices her blush at the attention. Peyton sees a group of young women, natural beauties, sipping wine outside a restaurant, and their eyes dart to each other, then to Lucas. She hears them say something about 'l'occhio'. Her limited knowledge of the language lets her know those girls are talking about his eyes.

She's noticed them, too. Intense blue with flecks of sapphire. She's never seen eyes quite like his, and she doesn't know why she's so drawn to him. It's more than just the fact that they understand each other.

He learns about her life and her art. He's captivated with the way she talks about her work. She won't show him her sketch book, and he doesn't ask to see it, but he sure is curious. Music is her other passion, and he would have known that even if she hadn't said the words. Just the way she speaks of art and music, he can tell they're the most important things to her.

He tells her about his life and family and writing, and his reason for the trip. She asks the names of his novels and nods like she's heard of them. Most people have. He likes that she's not making a big deal of it. And he loves the smile she gives him when he says that this is the best day he's had since he landed in the country.

Nothing has ever sounded so sweet to her.

He notices she's only taking photos of crosses. Well, not _only_ crosses, but every time she sees one, she snaps a photo. He sees the smile on her face as she presses the button, or when her fingers trace over a cross. They're hidden everywhere, here, as though the people always need to be that close to the sign. Sidewalks and storefronts, and etched into stone on the walls. He's sure she's gotten 50 photos in just the couple hours he's known her.

"Are you religious?" he asks as they pass an old church and she takes a photo of the bell tower.

"Not particularly," she responds. She knows she's being vague, but her faith is hers, and she doesn't like to share it. Something about this guy, however, is making her rethink all the things about herself that she's been so certain of for so long.

"You just seem enamored with the cross," he points out as they walk. He tugs her arm when she almost steps in a puddle, and she smiles up at him as a thank you.

"That's because I am," she tells him. He looks at her questioningly, and she knows she needs to elaborate. "It's just such a simple sign, you know? Just two lines, really, but it means so much to so many people." She looks at him and sees him smiling, and she knows he understands. "It's just powerful, to me, that no matter where I go or what I see, I always see crosses."

"I never really looked at it that way," he admits.

"My first trip after college, I went to Mexico for a week and a half. That's when I noticed how common the cross is," she explains. "Faith and religion can be two totally different things, but...I dunno...I'm sorry, I'm rambling again."

"It's okay," he says with a laugh. "I don't mind."

He thinks he's falling in love.

It's not just the backdrop - vineyards and sunflowers and buildings that look like they've been soaking up sunlight for hundreds of years. She's interesting and insightful, and she's absolutely stunning. She seems to know too much about him, though he hasn't really told her anything, and she hasn't asked for many details.

He wonders if she just already knows.

He watches her delicate hands trace the cursive of a word he doesn't know, etched onto a bench in the centre of the town, and all he can think is that she's perfect. What he knows of her is perfect.

She can tell he's staring, and she's glad she has the intense sunshine as an excuse for why her cheeks are red. But she's pretty sure that if he asks and that's what she tells him, he'll see right through it.

Perhaps, though, the most interesting thing about him, is that she doesn't feel that she has to hide anything. There's nothing about herself that she wants to keep secret from him, and she's not sure if that's because she knows she may never see him again, or if it's because she _wants_ to see him again.

It scares her a little to think of it, so she stops, and she smiles at him when she notices him watching her trace letters on the stone.

"La notte nero," she says. And something about that, her speaking Italian as their eyes lock, makes the hair on his neck stand on end. "The black night," she translates.

"I wonder why it's here," he muses with a furrowed brow.

"I don't know," she says softly, looking back to the writing. "It's kind of a romantic notion, though."

He's speechless, because that's such a beautiful interpretation that he wishes he'd thought of it himself. He wants to write that in his journal, but he doesn't want to creep her out by quoting things she's saying. Already, since he's met her, she's said more inspiring things than he's heard in recent months.

"It's beautiful," he says, and when she turns back to him, they both know he's not just talking about those three little Italian words.

He's talking about her.

There are a few seconds of just locked eyes. Green and blue meeting somewhere in the middle, all confused and a little unsure of what's going on. Whatever it is, neither wants it to end, and so when he suggests that they have dinner, she smiles coyly and says she's picking the restaurant.

They order a bottle of wine, and he watches in wonder as she licks her bottom lip subtly after she takes the first sip. His heart is racing over this perfect stranger. And she is a _perfect_ stranger. He's convinced of it now.

Her Italian is so much better than she's let on, and she orders them two dishes that she insists they'll both love. She asks if he'll mind sharing, and he says no, because at this point, he'd pretty much do whatever she wants him to do; whatever she suggests.

He looks at her across the table, and he really wonders where she's come from. She's his kind of girl. He hardly knows her, but he knows that somehow.

"What?" she asks.

He could lie. He could tell her that it's nothing, or he was just thinking, or that she shouldn't worry about it.

But he doesn't. _Can't_.

"You're beautiful."

Her breath catches in her throat. She doesn't know why he just said that. She likes that he did. She just smiles and lets herself blush. She doesn't hide that colour on her cheeks as she tucks a lock of hair behind her ear.

She really doesn't know anything about him. They met mere hours ago, but they've had more honest conversations than she can remember having with anyone. He feels like an old friend somehow. She feels like he knows her secrets without her even saying a word. It's like he can see through her.

She should hate that. She doesn't.

They talk about their food, and he praises her choices, she shrugs her shoulder like it's no big deal, and he shakes his head. They finish their bottle of wine, and she orders a dessert liqueur she insists he'll love, and some tiramisu. He trusts her. She hasn't given him any reason not to.

Her foot brushes his calf beneath the table, and he wants to kiss her.

He can't, and he shouldn't, and he probably won't. But he really wants to. It may be the wine and this sweet tasting...whatever it is...in the small glass before him, but he doesn't want the night to end.

"Not that I have any ulterior motives," he says. It may be a lie. "But where are you staying?"

"I'm actually staying at this big, old farmhouse like, a couple miles from here," she tells him, watching as his eyes go wide again. "My best friend booked everything. She kind of went all out."

"So you're in a huge house all by yourself?" he asks, and she nods. "Doesn't that freak you out?"

"It probably should, shouldn't it? But I'm kind of used to being alone," she says with a shrug of her shoulders.

He doesn't know why, but that bothers him. It also puts an unexpected smile on his face. She doesn't have a boyfriend. He hasn't asked, but she just answered, whether she knows it or not.

"What about you?" she asks.

"I just have a room at the villa here," he says, pointing needlessly towards the door of the restaurant. She nods her head as he takes a sip of his drink.

She's not the kind of girl who does this. She doesn't do one night stands. She's never had one. But she's drawn to Lucas in a way that is dangerous and strange, and she's going to basically proposition him. She wouldn't do it if she didn't think he'd say yes. If she didn't think he wanted it too.

"Not tonight," she says softly, locking eyes with him.

"Excuse me?" He heard her. He's not sure if he's imagining it.

"Don't stay there tonight," she says enticingly. She's surprised by her own confidence.

"And just where would I stay?" he asks with a smile, leaning forward, his elbows on the table.

"Are you flirting, or do you just catch on slow?" she teases. He laughs, and she smiles.

"You know, that's not...I wasn't expecting..."

"Are you saying no?" she asks with a raised eyebrow.

"No. God, no," he breathes out, eyeing her across the table. "I just wanted you to know."

"You're sweet," she says. Their waiter sets the bill on the table, and she leans across to grab it, but he pulls it away. "Lucas."

There's something about the way she says his name that sounds so familiar and so foreign, all at the same time. Her lips part perfectly and then brush against each other when she's finished and...And he's staring. He's certainly not being subtle. But she's the one who just invited him to spend the night with her, so he thinks it might be alright to stare at her a little bit. Or a lot.

"I've got it," he says, shooting her a smile across the table. She glares at him and it only makes him laugh. He gets the feeling she's not used to being taken care of. He knows better than to mention it. She'd no doubt insist that she doesn't need to be taken care of, and he knows that much already.

That doesn't mean he doesn't want to do it.

----

They step outside and the sky is orange, and Peyton smiles and turns to look at Lucas. He's looking at her. He can't stop, and he doesn't think she minds. She says something like, "look at that," and casts her glance skyward again, and for a very brief moment, she lets herself think that there's no one in the world that she'd rather be standing there with. His hair shines like gold and his eyes look kind of purple and he's sexy, and she _likes_ him.

It's not just that they're here. She's glad they are, of course, but that's only part of it. The thing is? She thinks that she could have met him anywhere, anytime, and felt the same things. Finding beauty in the simple things he does, and feeling like every little thing that happens around them is only heightened by the fact that it's happening when they're together.

"You want to walk?" she asks, turning to look at him. "It's only a couple miles."

"Only?" he asks in amusement. She shrugs her shoulder to let him know she can manage, and it's almost like she's challenging him. "Sure."

They walk for a while - a half hour maybe - and she finds herself initiating most of their conversations. For a writer, he doesn't talk a whole lot, and she thinks that's endearing and mysterious. She wants to know more. She wonders if that was his plan all along, not that it really matters. She loves the way his shoes sound against the dirt road with every step he takes, and the way he'll randomly sigh, like he's thinking of something heavy. He'll look over at her and smile for no reason, and she thinks he was thinking of her. She certainly can't stop thinking about him.

"You think it's fate?" she muses aloud.

"What? This?" he asks, gesturing between the two of them. She nods, and a little smirk breaks on his lips. "Maybe it is."

She doesn't say anything. She tucks her hand into his as they walk, and she smiles again when he weaves his fingers together with hers. He can feel her soft, smooth skin now, and he wants to feel more of it, but he's not entirely certain that's where this night is going. That's alright, he thinks. He doesn't want to expect anything - over the years, he's learned not to - but he adores this girl, and he thinks that he could fall in love with her, and in a lot of ways, he thinks he already has. She's exactly what he's been looking for, he just didn't know it. She's beautiful and smart and funny and..._everything_.

"I'm going to kiss you tonight," he tells her, like it's just fact and he just wants her to know.

She lets out a little laugh because she doesn't know what else to do. "That's it? You're...you're telling me you're going to do it, but you won't tell me when?"

"Nope."

"Why?"

"Because it's more fun this way. I've gotta keep you on your toes, you know?" he says, and she smiles and nods her head like she understands, when really she doesn't.

"Alright," she almost whispers.

He stops walking and pulls her back to him, and she crashes against him, but he holds her tightly. He's pressed his lips to hers before she even knows what's happening. She hates that she's surprised. He just told her he was going to do it. After what he just said about it being more fun...well, she'd argue that this, kissing him, right now, is definitely more fun than anticipating it. Especially when he pulls away, then immediately brushes his lips against hers softly again.

"Okay," she says. She doesn't know what that means.

"Okay? Just okay?"

"No!" she says quickly, opening her eyes to see his smirk. "Better than okay. A lot better. It was..." He raises his brow in amusement and she blows out her breath. "I'm shutting up now."

"You don't have to. You're adorable when you ramble like that," he tells her. His hand moves up and down just slightly at her waist and it's a struggle to keep her breathing even.

"Are you gonna do it again?" she asks. She glances at his lips and subconsciously licks her own, and he holds her so that her hips are flush to his.

He does it again. And again. And again. They're still standing along the side of the road, her country home not even in sight, and she buries her face in his chest and laughs softly. He wraps her full into his arms, and he's never in his life seen that colour of purple in the sky.

----

They get to the old house she's staying at, and it's all Lucas can do not to laugh. She was right. It's big - easily 3,000 square feet - and at least 200 years old. There's a small barn that he can only assume used to hold chickens or...something. There's a huge yard and an orchard, and he wishes he'd found this place first. It's a little creepy, though, since the inside is decorated in an old-world style. Some things are a little dusty, and the house is drafty, and the lights take at least five seconds to flicker on after Peyton has flicked the switch.

But it'd be the perfect place to finish a novel. He knows that much.

"Definitely jealous," Lucas says as he follows Peyton to wherever she's walking. "This place is...amazing."

"It's pretty cool," she admits.

They're quiet, because she has absolutely no idea what to do next, and she can tell Lucas wants to respect her and her space. She notices he's still a little nervous, and if she's being honest, she is too. She has no idea what she wants to happen - though she's not adverse to more of the kissing - and suddenly, she really doesn't know why she invited him here in the first place, and where the confidence went that she had when she asked.

"So what would you have done if we hadn't met?" he asks. That sounds arrogant and conceited, which isn't how he intended it. "I mean, what would you be doing tonight?"

She smiles. He's trying to make her feel at ease. She thinks that's just the sweetest thing.

"Honestly? I probably would have taken a bath, listened to some music, and gone to bed." They both laugh, but she's not lying. And she kind of still does want to take that bath. "I have a confession to make."

"Oh?" he says worriedly.

"I...before when you said you were writing your book...I know who you are. I mean, I know your name. I mean, I've read your books," she says quickly. She smiles when she sees a little bit of pink on his cheeks. She has no idea how he's so humble. "They're beautiful, Lucas."

"Thank you," he says quietly. She closes the space between them so she's standing in front of him, and he reaches out to take her hand. "I'm glad you like them."

"I have an idea," she says. There's a glint of something in her eyes that he can't decode, and so he raises his brow. "Come with me."

She leads him by the hand towards the staircase, and he notices that the floorboards creak with every single step. He doesn't know what tricks she has up her sleeve, but his heart is racing anyway. He can only assume that her bedroom is upstairs. He doesn't want to assume that's where she's taking him, but what else is he to think? When she leads him straight to the bathroom and turns on the taps to run a bath, he grows even more confused. He watches with a little grin as she pours in bubble bath and bath salts and lights candles.

He still doesn't know what his part in all of this is.

She walks down the hall, but tells him to stay there. When she returns, her hair is up in a messy bun, she's wearing a silk robe, and she's got a book in her hands. She's got one of _his_ books in her hands.

"Read to me?" she requests. He takes the book from her, but shakes his head. "Look. Lots of bubbles, you won't see a thing. You can sit right here." She drops a towel on the floor next to the old claw-foot tub, and she smiles at him. "Please?"

"Peyton, this..." He doesn't finish, because he doesn't know what to say. He can't say it's a bad idea, or that he doesn't want to, or that it isn't so damn sexy that he can hardly stand it.

"Turn around," she commands. She raises her brow when he hesitates, and he rolls his eyes before turning so his back is to her. Seconds later, he hears the water sloshing around, and her taking a deep breath. "Okay."

She was right. Lots of bubbles. He can't see a thing.

He sits down and tries to stop his head from racing or his heart from racing, but it's not really working. He leans back against the tub and opens the book and she tells him to read from page 126, because that's her favourite. He turns and looks at her, the ends of her hair wet and her eyes closed as she lays back in the water, and he smiles.

He honestly has no idea how his day has turned out like this or how his trip has turned out like this. He wants to ask, to muse aloud why she's even giving him the time of day.

He just starts reading instead.

----

He waits downstairs and opens a bottle of wine while Peyton changes. She stands in her bedroom in a clean pair of jeans and a black cashmere sweater that she doesn't remember packing. She knows Brooke must have thrown it in there. She laughs to herself as she touches up her makeup. This is probably the most reckless thing she's ever done, spending time alone in a big empty house with a complete stranger.

The thing is, there's something about this guy, and she can tell that there's even more about him that she doesn't know. Yet.

----

"How's your jet lag?" she asks after watching him yawn. She has no idea how she thinks him yawning is sexy. She shouldn't.

"So bad." He laughs a little and she takes a sip of her wine. "I should be over it by now, but I just..I can't sleep."

"Can't sleep, but you're always tired?" she asks, and he nods. "Yeah. Same."

He desperately wants to say that they should try sleeping next to one another, just to see if that might solve the problem. He doesn't say it, because he thinks that's probably exactly what's going to happen.

"How's the wine?" she inquires.

She watches as he sits down on the old sofa in the sitting room next to the big fireplace. He looks more at ease here than she's felt in the three days she's spent in this house, and she wonders how that is. Is she nervous because it's a new place and a very new person, or is she nervous because she's just unable to let herself not be nervous.

"You can't just be...quiet, can you?" he asks knowingly.

"You're not saying anything," she says in frustration. He laughs softly and she walks over to sit next to him, leaving a foot or so of space between them. "And no, I'm not used to the quiet. I've always got music playing, or I'm talking to someone. This is new."

"I have an idea." She looks at him with her eyes narrowed, wordlessly asking what he's thinking of. "It's a game."

She scoffs and looks away. "Let me guess. Who can go the longest without saying anything?"

"It'll be fun," he says with a smile.

"No. It won't. I'm awful at this. The only reason I always won with Brooke is because she's even worse than me."

"It's fun. I play with Jamie sometimes."

"Your nephew. Who's under the age of 10," she says indignantly. "Luke, I don't want to."

"We're playing. Now just...breathe, okay?" he says. He places his hand on hers and his pinky falls into the space between her index and middle fingers. She tucks her thumb under to caress his littlest finger, and he thinks that maybe that's the sweetest way anyone's ever touched him. "Any time you want to talk, just breathe instead."

"Do you tell Jamie to do that too?" she asks.

"No. He doesn't need someone to tell him how to be quiet. I get the feeling you do," he says, making her scowl. "And don't say anything. The game starts now."

She takes a deep breath and he smiles at her. He tips his head back against the sofa as he holds his wine glass in the hand that isn't clutching hers. It's quiet. Very quiet. There's a clock ticking on the wall and the two of them breathing, but that's it. Lucas raises his glass to his lips and smiles when he catches Peyton watching him.

She wants to just kiss him, knowing that kissing him would be a surefire way of keeping herself from talking, but she knows he'd see through it and make a comment. Well, he'd make a comment after she said something, so that she'd lose the game like he so obviously thinks she will. Well, she may be a talker, but she's also stubborn, and she won't let herself lose.

It lasts 10 minutes. 10 entire minutes, and she doesn't say a word. He's proud of her. They just sit there, breathing - he can hear her sigh every so often, and it makes him almost laugh - with their hands touching between them on the sofa.

But then she locks eyes with him. Both their glasses are empty, and she places them on the table beside the sofa. She looks into his eyes, and he absolutely cannot look away. He only blinks when it becomes painful not to, and he'd almost put money on the fact that he can see absolutely everything she has to offer. He's known her maybe 12 hours? He doesn't know; he won't look at the clock. But he wants everything. Every single thing she wants to give, he wants to take. Whether that means he gets her for two hours or two days or forever. He doesn't care.

"Oh my God," he whispers, almost like he doesn't know he's saying it out loud. It's only when he notices her eyes glimmer a little that he realizes he's spoken the words. "I totally just lost, didn't I?" She smiles and nods. "You still aren't going to talk?" He laughs when she shakes her head. "Don't you want to know what I was thinking about?" She nods again and his hand comes to rest on her cheek. "You are absolutely gorgeous. Like...it's not even _right_ how beautiful you are." Her eyes soften, and he thinks that he could probably read her every emotion this way. "I can't...I don't know how we met, but..."

She kisses him before he can finish.

She doesn't say anything when he buries his hands in her hair, or when they stand up and clumsily walk to the stairs. She reaches for his hand, and he pulls her against him, kissing her again as they fumble their way towards her bedroom.

It's not until he's laying on top of her and his fingers are sneaking beneath the fabric of her shirt that she actually says something. It's been probably a half an hour since she actually spoke, but she just can't let this happen.

"Wait," she says breathlessly. He doesn't groan like most men would, and he doesn't ignore her like some men would. He pulls away and looks at her, waiting for an explanation but not demanding one. "I'm sorry. I just...feel like I hardly know you."

"Really?" he asks, looking all sexy and cute and confused. "I feel like I've known you my whole life."

She's pulling the front of his shirt to bring him closer, and kissing him again before she even lets her self think of things like love at first sight.

----

She's propped up on her elbow, the sheet wrapped around her upper half, showing only her tanned shoulders and arms. Her hair is swept to one side, and her skin looks like it's glowing a little more somehow. She's looking down at him with a lazy smile that if he had more energy he'd definitely kiss.

"What?" he asks. She's got the sheet mostly covering her, and he's only left with enough to cover his waist. He thinks she likes it that way.

"I don't do this."

"I guessed."

"Really?" she asks.

"Well, you said you hardly knew me, and...I just figured you're not that girl," he explains, shrugging one shoulder as he rolls over so he's facing her.

"What kind of girl do you think I am?" she inquires, running her hand through the hair at his temple. She's smiling like she wants to hear why he likes her as much as he seems to.

"The kind who rambles when she's nervous and doesn't make the first move," he says, and she starts blushing immediately. "Who doesn't take anything for granted and sees the world in a way that everyone should."

"Okay, stop," she insists seriously. She didn't expect him to start a list. "Stop."

"Who has absolutely _no_ clue how amazing she is," he tells her.

"Lucas." He smiles and leans over to kiss her quickly. "What time is it?"

"Don't know."

"We should try to get some sleep," she says, knowing he can't argue. He's mid-yawn, and she knows it's well after three in the morning, Tuscan time, so whatever time that makes it in the Carolinas. It's late, and they're tired, and this was all wonderful and unexpected, but if she doesn't get at least a couple hours of sleep, he definitely won't like her attitude in the morning.

"There won't be any try," he says, and he sounds sweet, so she smiles. "You've tired me out."

"Hey!" she cries, swatting his arm. He just laughs and pulls her against him before blowing out the lone candle that was lighting the room. "Goodnight Luke."

"Goodnight Peyton."

She falls asleep thinking she's never felt better laying in someone's arms. He falls asleep thinking no one's ever fit there so perfectly.

----

She watches him sleep a little bit. She should probably feel like a creep, but she doesn't, because she figures that anyone who looks _that_ good is probably used to getting stared at. Even if he isn't, she doesn't care. He should get used to it. His hair is all a mess, and he's laying on his stomach, his back all perfect as he lays there next to her.

She tries to think of why this is all happening. She asks herself all those questions that she didn't ask herself the night before. Why him and why now and why here? But it doesn't matter, as far as she's concerned. Because it is him, and it is now, and it is here.

And so as she's thinking of what she wants to do that day, and he opens his eyes and all she sees is blue, she can't stop herself from just asking the question.

"You wanna go to Rome?" she asks.

"What?" His voice is thick with sleep. He's barely awake and she's asking him if he wants to go to Rome and it's insane. He had to say 'what', so that he didn't just say 'yes'.

"Rome. I'm going. Want to come with me?"

He doesn't say anything. He smiles and takes a deep breath. He nods and he pulls her into his arms so he's as close as he can get her. They stay that way for a while, another hour, maybe, and neither of them is asleep, and they don't really say anything, but they just lay there in the big brass bed, huddled up beneath the sheets.

She wants to go to Rome.

So they go to Rome.

He insists they rent a car instead of taking a bus, so they get into a little European convertible and spend a few hours on the road, driving and stopping to take photos or check out little towns along the way. She's wearing a black summer dress and a pair of sunglasses, and she holds his hand over the gearshift as he steers them towards the city they're both excited to see.

It feels like he needs her. It feels like she's the reason he ended up in Italy, and the trip wouldn't be the same without her. That maybe _he_ wouldn't be the same without her. He wants to tell her, but he doesn't know if she'd want to hear it. He doesn't want to scare her, and he doesn't want to hear that he's feeling more for her than she's feeling for him.

So he doesn't say anything.

They walk old streets and see old things and sip the best coffee they've ever had in their lives. She takes photos of him with his camera, and he takes photos of her with her camera, and they get strangers to take photos of the two of them together on both cameras. They stand at the Trevi fountain and he tosses a coin over his shoulder, and she takes a picture of him when she knows he isn't looking. It's a good one. She doesn't know how it couldn't be. She slips her hand into his as they weave their way through a crowd of people, and he pretends not to see the tears in her eyes as they stand in the Sistine Chapel.

The truth is, she thinks he's perfect, and she can't believe her - their - luck that they live in neighbouring states, only a few hours from one another.

He has tattoos inspired by his favourite places he's traveled. A Chinese symbol from his trip to Asia two summers ago. He was young and foolish, and it's far too big and on his bicep. If he had it to do over, he'd do it differently. But it's still a reminder of that time in his life - his first solo adventure and all the lessons he learned in those quick seven days.

He's got the word _relax_, printed on the inside of his wrist, inspired by the time he spent in Brazil and the laid back lifestyle of the people there. He spent two weeks in a little rented house by the ocean. A private beach, beautiful women, and incredible sunsets. He slept late and followed no set schedule, and he finished his first novel while he was there. Now he's reminded each time he sees that ink on his wrist, to take time and enjoy himself. Life isn't a game, but that doesn't mean it can't be fun.

He traveled to Scotland six months ago, and spent 10 days wrapped up in his family's history and culture. He learned that the Scott motto is_ 'Amo'_, which translates to _'love'_, and so he had an artist in Edinburgh ink him with that three letter Gaelic word on the outside of his left foot. It's rather small by most standards, and barely noticeable, but he loves it.

His mother jokes and scolds him every time he books a plane ticket, knowing that he'll come back with another tattoo, so he's promised her he'll only get them when something specific speaks to him. She was content with that answer, but she knew that Italy would speak to him.

He's starting to think that a cross might be perfect.

Ever since she pointed it out, he's been seeing them everywhere. He'd only noticed with her, because she'd stop to snap a picture. Now, they're all he can see, and they remind him of her. He kind of likes the reminder. Even when she's standing right next to him.

It's late when they get back to her house, and she looks at him like he's crazy when he doesn't cut the engine.

"What?" he asks. He knows. He wants to hear her say it.

"You're staying."

"I am?" he asks, smiling at her.

She reaches over and turns off the car, then pulls the keys from the ignition. She gets out and walks towards the front door of the house before he even has his seat belt undone.

He supposes that's a yes.

----

She tells him that she wants him to stay with her, and he asks her if she's sure. She asks him if she looks like the kind of girl who does things she's not certain about, and he says no.

He loves that she's sure about him.

They get his things from the hotel he was staying at, and he checks out. They spend the rest of the day in the sun on that big lawn at her house. He's sitting at a little table with his laptop open, trying to get his novel finished. It's almost done, and he's thankful. All he wants to do for the rest of this trip is spend time with Peyton. She's laying on the lawn in a bikini, listening to her iPod and wiggling her toes to the beat. He can hardly keep his eyes off her. He just knows there's a perfect story wrapped up in her, and he's already thinking about it.

He cooks her dinner and she sits on the counter next to the stove with a glass of wine in her hand. She swings her legs and accidentally kicks him every so often, but she looks cute enough when she apologizes that he can't tell her to stop. He kisses the wine from her lips and she locks her legs around his waist.

He thinks that maybe he never wants to leave, that he just wants to live with her in this old house and fall in love with her in the Tuscan sunshine and get married and have babies and just forget the rest of the world.

She tells him she loves his cooking, and he's seriously considering it.

----

She's wearing his shirt the third morning he's slept at her place. He walks into the kitchen with just his boxers on, and she's there in his white, short sleeved button down as she scrambles eggs and fries bacon. She's listening to her iPod (again; always) and she shimmies around a little bit, since she doesn't know he's there.

He probably shouldn't, but he walks up behind her quietly and grips her hips. She jumps a little, since he's scared her, and she tugs out her earbuds. He kisses her cheek and presses himself up against her.

"God, you're sexy," he says.

He hasn't called her that before. Beautiful, gorgeous, adorable, cute, pretty. He's called her all those things. Never sexy. She likes the way it sounds coming from him. She kind of likes the way everything sounds coming from him.

"I'm trying to cook," she says needlessly.

"I'm trying to...Well, I don't really know," he admits, making her laugh. He kisses her shoulder where his shirt is gaping on her a bit. "Good morning."

"'Morning," she says quietly. He treats her so delicately sometimes that it kind of makes everything stop working. She can't breathe and she can't sleep and she cant think and the only thing she can feel is how fast her heart is beating.

He hops up onto the counter where there's a cup of coffee waiting for him, and he watches as she works. It's distracting. He's hardly wearing anything and she's hardly wearing anything. No one has ever made a white shirt look as good as she's making that white shirt look.

"I..."

She looks over at him. He doesn't say anything more than that one syllable, one word.

"What?" she asks.

"Nothing," he says, shaking his head. He sends her a smile and she doesn't prod any further.

It's not nothing.

He's in love with her. He is. It's been only a few days and it's not realistic and he doesn't want to believe that it's true, but it is. He's fallen in love with her.

----

She's standing on the terrace at the back of the house. It's an old stone patio with ivy of some sort climbing up the sides, looping through the stone railings and tickling her bare feet. She stands there wearing just a white camisole and her jeans, the warm night air is hot on her skin, but there's enough of a breeze to make it the perfect weather to be there, looking out at the fields that surround the house and the clear sky.

Lucas is inside, typing away. He insists he's just finishing his work, and the way he said it was almost like he was apologizing. She thinks that's cute. He came to Italy to finish his novel, and she's been distracting him, though he hasn't said those words. She knows they're true. She left him in the room he's adopted as his 'study', and she grabbed a bottle of wine and a glass, and told him to come find her when he was done. He hadn't said anything in response. She could tell he wanted to.

It doesn't bother her to just wait for him. He's teaching her how to enjoy the silence.

It's been probably an hour. She's finished a glass and a half of wine and watched the last of the sunset, and now it's dark and perfect, and there are so many stars she doesn't know which ones to look at. She feels a pair of arms wrap around her, and she smiles and leans back against him. She's gotten so used to him in a short amount of time, and it doesn't terrify her like it probably should. She's been so scared of this - of letting herself be with someone - for all her life, and yet it comes so naturally with Lucas. He's not asking her for anything, and she's not really asking him. They're just with one another without all the questioning of what it means. She thinks that could either be not healthy at all, or the healthiest thing she's done in years, and she's leaning towards the latter.

The reason being that she hasn't been this happy in ages.

"How'd it go?" she asks. He reaches for her glass and takes a sip of her wine.

"All done and sent to my editor."

"Luke!" she cries. She turns in his arms and smiles up at him. "That's so great."

"Well, I hope it's great. We'll see what my editor says," he tells her. He shrugs his shoulder like he isn't a brilliant writer, and Peyton sighs and shakes her head. "What?"

"Shut up, would you?" she requests. His eyebrows fly up, but he's grinning at her. "Your writing...Lucas, it's...I can't describe it."

"Don't try," he says, shaking his head. "It's...I'm not good with this part. I just love the writing part."

"The reviews? Hearing what your readers say?" she asks, surprised.

He reaches for her glass of wine again, and she smiles when he takes another sip. She could go get another glass, but she likes that they're sharing. It's silly, but she likes it. It feels...oddly intimate.

"The stories are just in me, and...if I don't write them, I feel..."

"Trapped," she says softly.

"Yeah." She can tell he's taken aback that she's used the perfect word.

"That's how I feel about my art," she explains. "Like if I don't paint that one certain thing, I'm going to think about it non-stop until I get it on the canvas."

"That's exactly how I feel," he says, in awe that they have something else in common, such a wonderfully unique feeling that stems from them each being creative.

She eyes the glass in his hand, and he tips it up so she can drink from it. It makes him smile. She's absolutely beautiful in this light...in any light...and he loves sharing with her. Food, smiles, laughter, experiences, a bed, this house, kisses, fears, thoughts. He's never met one person who he's loved sharing every single aspect of his life with.

She turns around again so he's standing behind her, and he can smell the coconut and lime shampoo she uses. He'd made fun of her for it before, saying it was an odd combination of scents. She washed his own hair with it to prove her point, and it drove him crazy all day. He'd stayed 'home' to write and she'd gone to a nearby town to check out a little gallery. All he could smell was that shampoo all day, and it made him think of her. It doesn't take much for him to think of her.

She pours more wine into the glass and sets the bottle back down on the railing. She can't understand the label; it's all a bunch of Italian words she'd never be able to translate. All she knows is that the wine tastes good, and Lucas was the one who'd picked it out at the shop a few days earlier.

"I don't think I've ever drank as much wine in my life as I have this week," she says with a laugh.

"I know. It feels wrong not to though," he says. "Like it's a right of passage."

"Wine tastes better here," she notes. "I don't know if it's the wine, or the atmosphere, or...or the company, maybe."

"Maybe the company," he agrees quietly. He kisses the crown of her head and she takes another drink. He's certain they're going to finish this bottle as they stand right here on this terrace. "You seem happy," he notes. "Not that...I mean, I guess I don't really know what you're like at home, but..."

"I _am_ happy," she interrupts him. She leans her head back so it's resting against his shoulder, and he kisses her cheek. He can't stop kissing her. She doesn't want him to. "I'm really happy when I'm with you."

"I'm glad," he almost whispers. "I'm happy, too."

She turns her head to look at him and she smiles. She pulls herself from his arms and he looks at her like she's crazy as she climbs up onto the wide ledge of the terrace, and he grins at her when she pats the space next to her. He can't not join her.

They spend the rest of their evening sitting there, talking about whatever they can think of and passing that one glass between them. She tells him that it might be crazy, but she's proud of him for finishing his novel. He tells her that it might be crazy, but those words mean more to him coming from her than they do coming from anyone else.

----

"I leave tomorrow," he announces, like it's just hit him and he doesn't want it to be true.

They're walking through town, holding hands after stopping for lunch at the little bistro where they first had dinner that night a week ago. She holds his hand a little tighter after she realizes she's got to be there a day without him. It's stupid and trivial, but ... it's kind of not. It's not just a day. It's a lot of days. She doesn't know what he wants. She wants to just assume that he wants to continue this...whatever it is...once they get back to the US, but she only wants to assume it so they don't have to have that conversation where he has the chance to tell her that he doesn't.

"Yeah," she says.

"Will you come see me when you get back?" he asks.

Well, she thinks, that settles that.

She smiles and stops walking, standing in front of him and wrapping her arms around him. She kisses him and his hand finds her cheek.

"Yes, then?" he asks with a laugh. She nods her head. "Good."

They resume walking, and she smiles at a couple kids playing soccer in the street. They're shouting something in Italian in childlike voices, and they start laughing hysterically. It's infectious, the happiness. For the first time in a long time, Peyton doesn't have to _think_ about being happy. She just _is_. That's got everything to do with the man whose arm she's clutching, and she knows it.

"What is this?" he asks abruptly. "I mean, it's...it's great, and I'm...I know what I want, but...What is this for you?"

"What do you want?" she inquires timidly.

He smiles when he realizes where they are - that bench in the center of town with those beautiful words etched into it - and he sits down, pulling her with him.

"I want this to be...You and I. It's not what I expected...I didn't expect anything, but...I can't ignore it," he says, shaking his head, almost like he doesn't believe it himself.

"I know." Her voice is soft and she's smiling again. "I want it to be...permanent." He almost sighs his relief. Permanent sounds pretty damn good to him. He couldn't have asked for a better word for her to have used. "I don't...Luke, I haven't felt like this since...ever. Like...ever."

He thinks he could tell her he loves her right now and she wouldn't question it at all.

----

His flight leaves mid-morning, and he doesn't want her to have to get out of bed to say goodbye. It'll just make it harder for him to walk out the door. Sure, he could have changed his flight and stayed with her until she leaves the next day, but it didn't really make much sense to do it. That doesn't mean he didn't want to.

He's got to leave pretty early. The sun has just come up as he's finished packing the last of his things, and she's wearing one of his Raven's tee shirts - his oldest and favourite one - but he wants her to. She looks beautiful laying there in the morning light, her hair a disaster and the sheets on her side of the bed all a mess. He has to laugh softly to himself. He has absolutely no idea how he's met her, still can't figure it out, but he can't picture a future that doesn't involve her.

He kneels next to the bed and brushes the hair from her temple, gently kissing her cheek and watching her stir and open her eyes.

"Hi," he says quietly, still stroking her hair.

"Don't go," she says, though she knows he has to. He closes his eyes and lets out a breath.

"Babe, you're gonna kill me with that."

"I know," she admits. "I'll...I'll see you soon though, right?"

"As soon as possible," he says, smiling at how sleepy she is. She's so cute in the mornings. He loves that he knows it.

"Okay." Her lids droop, and Lucas has to shake his head. He wishes he could stay. "I'm sorry. I'm...I'll get up."

"No. Don't," he insists. "Don't get up."

"I want to."

"I don't want you to," he says. She looks a little hurt momentarily. "It'll just make it harder."

"Yeah. You're right," she says. She grabs the front of his shirt and pulls him towards her, making him smile right before their lips meet. "I'm gonna miss that." He laughs and closes his eyes. "Maybe more than that, too."

She weaves their fingers together and holds their hands between them, and they both look down at the same time. He's never felt such a connection to someone, and she's never felt safer just holding someone's hand. Her slender fingers lock perfectly with his and they both think that means more than anyone else would notice.

"I love you," he says softly, because he'd be crazy not to.

Her eyes soften and she smiles a little. "You do?"

"Yeah," he whispers. "I do."

"Good," she says sleepily, laying back against the pillows.

"Yeah?" he laughs. "Is it good?"

"Mhmm." She smiles and runs her hand through his hair. "I think I might love you too."

They've talked about her past. He knows how guarded she is with her emotions. That combination of words, in his opinion, is as good as an I love you.

"Good," he says just to tease her a little bit.

He kisses her again, lets it linger a little bit, and then he stands. He looks down at her for a few moments, as though he's trying to memorize exactly how she looks. They may never be in Tuscany together again, and she'll never look exactly like this again, and he doesn't want to take a second of it for granted.

They don't say goodbye. He grabs his things and winks at her before he walks out the door, but they don't say goodbye.

It wouldn't be right. Because this is just the beginning of a story he knows is going to be a long one.

He can't wait to write it.

_**-Fin-**_


End file.
